


Everyday Magic

by just_ann_now



Category: Linnets and Valerians - Elizabeth Goudge
Genre: Family Fluff, Gen, Magical Realism, Romantic Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-26 16:37:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/968192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_ann_now/pseuds/just_ann_now
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Nan Linnett and those she loves, the lines between what might be magical, and what might be real, are soft and diffuse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everyday Magic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [opalmatrix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/opalmatrix/gifts).



**Prologue** July, 1912 

"I can't get my head around being called 'Francis,' he said. His smile caught at her heart. "I'm always looking around to see who they're speaking to. I know it's an old and noble name, Francis Valerian, and I should be proud to bear it. And I am, but, inside, I still think of myself as Davie. It's what I'm used to. Do you think you could, when it's just the two of us together - “

"But not daft," she cried, taking his hands in hers. "Not daft, never daft, but ill, and unable to let anyone know. But I'd be happy to call you Davie; that's how I first met you, and how I always thought of you, even once we knew who you were. Our Davie, back from being lost." 

"And my Nan." He picked her up and swirled her around, her skirts flying, as she laughed out loud. "My dear, dear, Nan."

 

**The Hands of a Healer** March, 1914

"It's damnab - _dreadfully_ hot," Davie said, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.

Nan smiled. In many ways, he was childlike, and it was his childlike nature that had charmed her, from the very first moment they'd met. She had never felt shy, or fearful, or intimidated by him, despite the difference in their ages. 

And the aspect of that childlike nature being manifested right now was his desire to imitate his father, even when the language was perhaps not _quite_ appropriate. But, understanding this, Nan let it go. 

"It _is_ warm, isn't it?" she replied. "It hardly seems like March at all. Egypt reminds me so much of India, where I grew up - the bazaars, and the scent of spices, and the temples everywhere. There's so much to see, and do, and experience here! I'm so grateful to Sir Hugo and Lady Alicia for inviting me to join all of you in your travel here."

He reached for her hand. "You shame me! I love your sense of wonder, your delight in the world around you, while I'm whinging about the weather. I should be grateful, and I _am_ , for all the good things that have come my way since I've met you. It's almost like magic, the way you changed my life, all of our lives, really. "

She blushed. "I don't know if it was magic, or miracles, or just luck that caused everything to work out as it did." She reached up to brush a strand of hair back from his cheek, suddenly becoming businesslike. "But you are warm, not quite feverish, but, still. Let me get a cool cloth for you."

He watched as she busied herself with pouring the lemon-scented water from a brass flagon into a bright porcelain bowl, carefully folding a linen handkerchief and dampening it slightly. When she brought it to him, and began bathing his forward with it, he leaned back with a soft sigh. 

"Wouldn't a rain shower be lovely right now?" he murmured. "A spring rain, or a heavy mist, like up on the moors." 

"And birdsong," she said. "A breeze, and the scent of green and growing things, and sounds of sheep..."

As she went on, her voice soft and melodic, he could almost feel the softness of the rain on his skin. The coolness of her hands made him think of sweet water running over stones, the cool and shady brooks of home. It all seemed so _real_ that he turned to look at her, and saw how the slanted sunlight of the courtyard limned her crown of braided hair, like a nimbus of braided gold and raindrops sparkling like diamonds. He shook his head, speechless at the wonder of it all. Then, in a moment, it was gone, and they were once again in the Mena Hotel garden, with Cheop's Pyramid towering in the distance. 

"Do you feel better, now?" she asked softly.

He took her hand again, and impulsively kissed her fingertips. He heard her catch her breath, and then she swiftly kissed the top of his head, a touch soft as mist. 

"I do," he said. 

 

**Green Girl** March, 1917

"It's out of the question, I'm afraid," said Lady Alicia. 

"I appreciate your offering, but I don't think it would be appropriate," said Sir Hugo.

"Nan, dear, have you thought very carefully about this?" said Uncle Ambrose. 

"Are you mad? It's going to be horrible. Why would you even want to?" said Robert.

"If this is what you want, of course I'll support you," said Davie. "But...."

The problem was, Nan wasn't sure that she really _did_ want to go into nursing. Ever since the letter had arrived at the Manor, followed in short order by the visit of a ginger-haired young officer who walked with a cane, there had been little talk of anything else. 

The Manor was to be requisitioned as a convalescent home for five to ten "extreme cases, requiring the utmost peace and quiet". A military doctor and two orderlies would be permanently assigned and billeted there, and additional help would be hired from the village. Sir Hugo and Moses Glory Glory Hallelujah would stay on to assist, and Lady Alicia and Nan would relocate to a guest house in Oxford for the duration.

Yet as lovely as an extended stay in Oxford would be, Nan felt frustrated; more than frustrated, she felt _angry_. She was not a child, after all; she was seventeen. Seventeen-year-old lads were dying in France each day, and seventeen-year-old lasses just like her were working for the war effort, in hospitals or factories or, oh, so many kinds of places that had been unimaginable for young women just a few years before. 

She beat her fist on the table, shocking the others into silence. "I have to do something, don't you see? It's wrong, it's _unfair_ , to all the others who are working so hard in the war effort. I can't just sit around, like, Betsey's china doll - "

"Well...." said her father slowly, glancing around the table for support. "There are Land Girls working on farms throughout the country. Perhaps you could do something like that here, at High Barton Farm? You wouldn't have to formally join, and go away and leave us. We could certainly use your help. You're already good with the bees, and honey and beeswax are necessities. We've been talking about increasing our egg production, too; we'll have to keep track of our strong layers, and cull the flock as necessary. So there would be record-keeping, and working with figures. And we'll be adding some acreage with oats and barley and rye, so there might even be a bit of field work as well. It's not glamourous..."

She laughed, sounding surprisingly grown up. "Did you think I imagined that nursing would be glamourous? I'll take bees and chickens and oats any day." 

So it was decided. Nan would return to living at High Barton, to the delight of her father, Uncle Ambrose, Betsy, and Ezra. She was sorry to leave her position as Lady Alicia's companion, but, "After all, my dear, I made do with Moses and Abednego for thirty years. As much as I'll miss your company, I'll consider it my own sacrifice for the war effort," said Lady Alicia drily. 

The bees, when she and Ezra went out to speak to request their indulgence (and increased production) hummed happily in reply. Soon the chickens, the lovely chickens with their soft _suk-suk_ , began to produce truly amazing amounts of eggs, even the grand-dame chickens who'd been there for years. 

Apples and pears, carrots and onions and potatoes, fields of golden, rippling grain were recognized and celebrated. And in the midst of it all was Nan: knee-deep in mud from retrieving lost lambs; hands blistered from scything barley, or simply bringing cool water or beer and a cheerful word to the thirsty workers. Everyone she met glowed in her presence, and everything she touched prospered. 

One summer day was so blazingly hot, that when Nan and Davie and all the farm hands had retreated to the cool shady kitchen, Nan had not asked for water, but had taken a long draught of ale like the others. It tickled her tongue, at first, but then she could feel the cold flood of it easing away the dust in her throat.

"I've never tasted anything so wonderful," she said, and Ezra choked back a laugh. 

"D'ye ever think of growing hops?" he asked Colonel Linnet, winking at Nan. "There are those who consider beer a necessity, too, and we could brew our own, just enough for us." 

Nan's eyes sparkled. "Why not?" she asked her father. "We have lots of good clear water, and we already grow barley. I could put in hops back there behind the chicken house..." 

And so Nan, under Ezra's watchful eye and insightful quality control, began to experiment with beer-brewing.

Over the years Nan had lost much of her shyness, so there was no question in her mind that she should visit The Falcon Arms or The Wheatsheaf to learn the secrets of the craft. Beer-brewing had traditionally been women's work, after all, and Nan was well known and highly regarded enough that there were no eyebrows raised at the propriety of a young maid visiting these public houses. Ezra was happy to accompany her when he could, but it was agreed that the beer-brewing was her responsibility. 

When High Barton Farm welcomed the community to celebrate the harvest, it was always Nan's ale, deep gold as the sunlight on a summer evening, or Nan's cider, crisp and sweet as late summer, that was drunk and savored. 

And as each year drew in toward winter, the oldsters of the village would gather at the Falcon Arms, to drink golden ale and swap stories. What stories they were! Stories their parents before them had told, and their parents before them, throughout the long ages, of the old gods, of the pixies, of the Green Man. Surely, Ezra thought, there must have also been a Green Woman, with a heart and hand and care for all the growing things. 

Then Ezra would think of Nan, and her smile, and her gentle hands now calloused with hard work, and he knew that, as dark as the world outside might seem, their village and the land all around must be under some loving, protective care. 

 

**Telling the Bees** February, 1921

It had snowed overnight, great feathery flakes, as Nan had brought their firstborn child into the world. Now, at mid-morning, the snow lay in a cushiony blanket over the lawns and gardens outside the window. Nan and the baby slept, the peaceful and well-deserved rest of those who had labored long and hard. Davie watched, counting their every breath a miracle, his own breath catching with joy, utter disbelief mingled with gratitude for what his life had become. 

Outside, a soft breeze shook the snow from the trees. Davie heard a rhythmic tapping on the window that overlooked the kitchen garden, its hives now quiet as the bees dozed their way towards spring. Lenten roses, crocus, and snowdrops bloomed under the yew trees, and Davie made a note to himself to bring some in to brighten Nan's bedside. 

The tapping continued, rhythmic, insistent, rousing Davie from his reverie with the realization that there _were_ no branches tall enough to reach the window here. He turned and, to his amazement, saw three golden bees fluttering against the wavy glass of the window. He had heard Nan's tales, and Ezra's, of the unique kinship the Linnets shared with the Vicarage bees. His own household, as well as many throughout the village, had been happy recipients of the bees' generosity in the form of honey, fine beeswax candles, and soothing herbal balms for chapped lips and dry hands. It certainly wasn't impossible for bees to awaken on a soft midwinter morning, but the behavior of _these_ bees – he strode across the room to the window and threw it open. 

The bees flew without hesitation towards the bed. Nan smiled in her sleep, and Baby Hugh made a small contented sound, as the bees circled and danced in an intricate pattern over them. Davie held his breath as it seemed as though the room was full of the scent of honeysuckle, and the soft golden light of a summer afternoon. 

_Madam Queens and noble bees,_ Davie murmured, almost dreamily. _We are honored that you have awakened from your wintersleep to visit. This is Hugh Valerian, Nan's son and mine; we ask your protection for him, in the wood and on the hill, on this day, and all of his days._ He bowed. 

Then the bees rose up and flew towards him, dipping as in salute, and hummed their way out the window again, over the garden wall and away. 

Davie watched them for a long time, shaking his head in wonder. 

**A Tragedy in the Family**  
October, 1929

"You stole her! You stole her! What have you done with my Fantle?" 

It had seemed as though Robin had been crying for hours, though it was actually only a short while before his outraged wails had subsided as he sobbed himself to sleep. Hugh, at first angry and defensive, had eventually come around to guilty helpfulness as he assisted in the search for his brother's stuffed elephant. Under the beds, atop the bookcases, inside and behind the toy chests – each likely spot was carefully examined, but to no avail. 

Hugh had offered to console his brother by reading him a story, but Robin would have none of it. "I hate you. Go away," he said, with surprising gravity for a four-year-old, as he turned away and pulled the covers up over his head. Hugh, chastened, kissed his mother goodnight and took the storybook to his own bed. 

_What a day_ , Nan thought, preparing herself a restorative pot of tea. The unexpectedly heavy autumn rain had kept the boys indoors all day, and Davie in London overnight. After what seemed like hours of endless quibbling, Nan had finally gotten them settled after supper with board games and music on the wireless. All was peaceful until Robin's bedtime, and the discovery that Elefantle was missing. 

As she sat in the kitchen waiting for the tea, she noticed a strange odor – not burning, exactly, but something very warm, like woollen cloth held too long under an iron. She sniffed, and sniffed again. The brand-new Aga cookstove, pride of the kitchen, sat warm and stolid, and she suddenly remembered meeting Hugh in the passageway between the kitchen and storeroom that afternoon. He'd looked guilty, but she remembered thinking it probably had to do with apple butter – Hugh loved it, and Nan had remembered the time her brothers had raided their grandmother's storeroom for strawberry jam. She hadn't thought, at that moment, of Hugh's fascination with the Aga –- 

She checked the main oven first, and found it blessedly empty. Then the warming ovens, one by one, and there in the third one, lay Elefantle. 

His fabric was badly scorched, and one glass eye was cracked. _Oh, dear,_ Nan thought, laying the toy on the table to examine more carefully. Could I just replace the scorched bits? No, probably not. Poor thing. White vinegar, then. I'll have to pull out all the stuffing first. Pity about his eye – perhaps I have some buttons that might do? 

Her tea forgotten, she got her workbasket, but had scarcely opened it when Robin woke again, crying for her and Fantle. Nan tucked the charred remains of the stuffed toy under her embroidery and went to tend to her son. 

It was several days before she had the chance to pick up her workbasket again. Robin had made do each bedtime with a stuffed horse, modeled after one of his Uncle Robert's prizewinning polo ponies, but had been sure to sniff dramatically and glare at his brother each time. Hugh had been much nicer to his little brother the past few days too, it seemed to Nan. 

"Pity that it took a tragedy in the family, no matter how small, to bring them together," she said to Davie that evening. "I'm not sure how well I'm going to be able to repair Fantle, though. Perhaps I shouldn't try, now that he seems to be making do with Pendragon -" she stopped. 

"What is it?" Davie asked. 

"I'm sure – I remember distinctly how badly scorched he was. He smelled horribly of burnt wool. And one of his eyes -" 

What she lifted from her basket, though, was a slightly ashy, slighty rumpled toy elephant, with barely a trace of damage. She stared it. 

"Perhaps you overreacted?" Davie suggested gently. "It was a stressful day and evening, you said..." 

She gave him a look. "I saw what I saw. Fantle was..." 

She shook the elephant out. There was a faint scent of applewood, and cinnamon, nothing more, and he seemed to regard her wisely from his gold-flecked brown eyes. 

**The Magic of Her Hands** January, 1950

Davie always painted on canvas in oils, inexpressibly grateful for the turn of fate that had brought him the opportunity to indulge in such extravagance after years of grinding roots and flowers for his pigments. Nan preferred watercolors, her landscapes and florals shimmering with color and exuberant joy. When they traveled together to study the great artists of France and Italy, Davie found that he preferred the realism of Courbet, Bonheur, and Millet, sharing their reverence for meticulous detail. Nan, though, preferred the work of the Impressionists, and their passion for the qualities of light. 

They kept the hideaway on Lion Tor for many years as a painting retreat, but when the hike up to Lion Tor began to be too difficult for Davie, they built a small studio in the bluebell woods near the Manor. Just their easels and supplies and folding stools at first, but soon they added a woodstove, and then a teapot and breadbox. After a while comfortable chairs, quilts, and their favorite books somehow made their way there, along with photographs of their children and grandchildren, of their travels, and mementos of the adventures they had shared. 

Davie recalled how thrilled they had been to have the opportunity to visit M. Claude Monet's home at Giverny after the War. The old man walked them through his gardens, pausing at the lily pond to point out his favorite blooms, those with the most extraordinary color and shape. Later, in his studio, he had shown them some of his current work. After wishing him well, they drove off in thoughtful silence. After a few moments the both spoke at once. 

"The colors were -" Nan started. 

"But they didn't really -" Davie began. 

They laughed. 

"The colors were extraordinary, those rich purples and mauves. I don't recall anything that intense, that powerful, in nature," she said. 

"The ones he's painting now don't look like water lilies at all, more like the _idea_ of a water lily, something that exists in his own imagination," Davie replied. 

"But is there anything wrong with that, really? He's made them real by his act of creation, by the magic of his hands, " she said. 

__The magic of his hands, Davie remembered, years later, as he watched Nan paint._ _

She was painting a baby robin, her meticulous brushstrokes highlighting the fluff of its newly-fledged feathers and bright, greedy beak. Davie could almost hear the incessant _cheeee-chee-chee_ of its cries, and the anxious fluttering of its mother. _How did Nan do that?_ , he wondered, not for the first time. 

"What possessed you to paint baby birds, in midwinter?" he asked. 

"I was just thinking about spring," she replied, smiling, "and how lovely and green it will be, with the grass, and the bluebells. The old apple trees in bloom, and the bees. Hugh and Joanna's baby will be here by then, too. Won't that be wonderful?" 

"And so it will. You know I'm green with envy that you don't need to paint that bird from life." 

"Why would I? I've seen enough baby birds to know what they look like." She put down her brushes. "Ready for some tea? I brought over some gingerbread, too." 

While Nan prepared the tea, Davie leaned in closer to study her painting. The baby bird was nestled under its mother's wing– odd that he hadn't noticed that before. The colors of her breast almost seemed to glow in the fading afternoon light. Then the mother bird turned her head towards him and winked. Davie started back in amazement. 

_Magic_ he thought, smiling as she brought him his cup of tea. 


End file.
